


Scandal - A Potterlock AU

by TheBetterQuibbler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Potterlock, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:39:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5538482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBetterQuibbler/pseuds/TheBetterQuibbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has never been liked much at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. However, all that changes with the arrival of first year John Watson. Together, the two boys battle the challenges of growing up all while fighting the status quo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Friend

It was a well-known fact that Slytherins were particularly hated amongst all of the students attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. However, there was one particular Slytherin that was hated particularly more than any others, especially amongst the Slytherins themselves.

“Out of the way, freak,” a fifth year Slytherin growled as he shoved past Sherlock, who was working on lifting his rather heavy trunk onto the Hogwarts Express. The shove caused Sherlock to lose his grip on the trunk, and it fell very painfully onto his foot. Sherlock winced and yanked his foot out from under the weight, cursing under his breath. It was 10:57, and since the train always left precisely at 11:00 Sherlock put all of his effort into getting his trunk onto the train. After a few more minutes of struggling he succeeded, right as the train whistle blew and the train began to move.

Of course, nobody had attempted to help him, for he was the most disliked student in all of Hogwarts. His know-it-all attitude and dry sense of humor did not liken him to anybody, not even his fellow Slytherins. People thought him odd and a freak, and most weren’t afraid to speak their minds to him, either.

It didn’t help that his brother was Head Boy. Most didn’t like Mycroft’s pompous attitude and associated this attitude with Sherlock as well. If only people knew exactly how much Sherlock detested his brother.

In any case, Sherlock got no help in getting his trunk onto the train and he most definitely wasn’t getting any help in lugging it to an empty compartment.

Most Slytherins tended to sit together in compartments toward the back of the train. However, since Sherlock was not generally accepted amongst them, he simply looked for an empty compartment anywhere. Halfway down the train Sherlock finally found a compartment all to himself. Happily, he settled in and pulled one of his textbooks out for this year that he hadn’t completed reading yet. He was prepared for a peaceful ride when the compartment door slid open. Sherlock looked up from his book, startled, into the brown eyes of what seemed to be a first year student.

“H-Hullo…” the small blond boy stuttered, looking quite terrified. Sherlock simply stared at him, unsure of how to handle this particular situation. The boy continued, “Do you mind if I sit with you?

Sherlock was about to say that yes, he did indeed mind that this small creature wished to disturb him and his peaceful solitude, but something about the boy’s brown eyes stopped him, and instead he found himself saying, “Not at all. Sit down.”

Timidly, the first year drug his own trunk into the compartment and then sat down across from Sherlock. The boy’s feet didn’t even touch the floor.

“My name’s John. John Watson,” the boy introduced, offering his hand for Sherlock to shake. Hesitantly, Sherlock took it.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“What year are you?” the younger boy asked, becoming more confident.

“Second.”

“This is my first year here. But I’ve been looking forward to coming my whole life. My mum and dad are both magic, though of course that doesn’t matter. Anyway, my mum works at St. Mungo’s and my dad’s an Auror for the Ministry of Magic. I want to become an Auror just like him some day. How about you?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “What about me?”

“What’s your family like? What do you want to be?”

“I’m not much for talking about myself,” Sherlock replied, looking out the window at the countryside passing by.

“Oh, okay,” John said, looking a little put out. After a moment of silence between the two boys, John asked, “So what’s Hogwarts like? My dad told me stories about what it was like back in his day, but of course some things have to have changed, right?”

“Look, I don’t suppose you’d mind if I were to continue reading, would you?” Sherlock asked irritably, holding the textbook up for John to see. “I’d like to finish this before we reach Hogsmead.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Of course.” Satisfied, Sherlock opened the dog-eared textbook and continued reading, but no more than two sentences in John asked, “Are we supposed to have our textbooks read?”

With an impatient sigh, Sherlock said, “No, it’s just something I do. I enjoy it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Five minutes of blissful silence followed before John spoke up again.

“So what house are you in? I hope to be in Gryffindor like my dad, but my mum was in Ravenclaw, which wouldn’t be too bad, I think. I just don’t want to disappoint either of them. So what house are you?”

“Slytherin.”

“Oh…” John watched Sherlock warily for a moment, and then said, “You don’t seem like a Slytherin.”

“Don’t I?” Sherlock asked in a bored tone, his attention still on his book.

“No. Maybe a Ravenclaw, but not a Slytherin.”

“Interesting.”

“Do you like being a Slytherin?”

Sherlock looked up from his book. “I’m impartial to the whole experience.”

“Experience of what?”

“Being categorized into a house.”

“Why are you impartial?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s unnecessary.”

“But isn’t your house supposed to be like your family?”

Sherlock shrugged again but this time didn’t respond. The two boys sat in silence for a while, but this time Sherlock didn’t turn his attention back to his book. Instead, it was a comfortable silence, where both were considering the conversation up to this point in a thoughtful manner before continuing. Finally, it was John who spoke up again.

“Do you have any friends at Hogwarts?” he asked. This elicited a chuckle from Sherlock.

“Not exactly, no.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because—”

“Anything from the trolley, dears?” asked the kindly old woman pushing the sweets cart as she slid open their compartment door. Sherlock shook his head, but John jumped up excitedly, pulling a small bag of money out of his pocket. He ended up ordering two pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, boxes of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, and chocolate frogs. He then gave one of each to Sherlock, who looked up at John with surprise, unused to any type of kindness.

“I’ll be your friend,” John offered shyly, sitting down once more across from Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes searched John’s for any trace of insincerity, but all he saw was an honest eagerness to be Sherlock’s friend. And so Sherlock smiled and said, “I’d like that very much.”


	2. Observations

When the train arrived at the Hogsmead station, John’s fear made a reappearance. He nervously straightened his robes as Sherlock led him off the train and onto the platform.

“Don’t fidget like that, it bothers me,” Sherlock instructed, and John automatically dropped his hands. “Now, do you see that big man right there? The one with the lantern? His name is Hagrid, and he’ll be taking you and the other first years to the castle.”

“W-What? But can’t I go with you?” John asked fearfully, gripping Sherlock’s sleeve. Sherlock shook him off, and then gently pushed his new friend towards the giant.

“It’ll be fine. Go.”

Hesitantly, John shuffled his way over to the large man, who looked down at him with twinkling black eyes nearly hidden in the bushy brown hair covering his face.

“’Ello there. What’s yer name, then?” Hagrid asked.

“John.”

“Well, John, nice to meet you,” Hagrid replied kindly, and then he shouted over the crowd, “First years! First years, with me! Hurry up!”

Soon there was a large group of children surrounding Hagrid, and when it seemed like no more would be joining them the giant led them off. Nervously, John cast one more look over his shoulder, hoping to catch sight of Sherlock one more time, but his friend was nowhere to be seen.

When they rounded a corner and John got his first view of Hogwarts, his breath was taken away and his heart sped up its pace. He’d been waiting his whole life to come to this school, and now it was finally happening. With a grin, he picked up his pace a little in an attempt to reach the boats faster. These boats would be carrying him and the other first years to the castle. He ended up sharing a boat with a mousy-haired girl who introduced herself to be Molly Hooper and two other boys.

The whole way across the lake, Molly stammered on and on about how excited she had been about receiving her acceptance letter, saying that it was a complete shock since both of her parents weren’t magical in the least.

“My parents thought it was all some huge joke when the professor delivered it. He had to turn our dog into a footstool and back before they believed him, and then they were so terrified they threatened to call the police. Of course, I was so excited, and I talked them into letting me go, and so the professor came back another day and we all went shopping for my things in Diagon Alley. It was amazing, with all of its magical shops and everything; well, of course you know how amazing it is, you’ve probably been there with your parents all your life. What’s it like to grow up with magic? It must have been wonderful…”

Indeed, she did not stop talking until they got out of the boats and were lead into a small room where they were told to wait until things were ready for them. At this point, almost everybody was quiet, fearfully considering how in fact they were going to be sorted into houses. This was one thing that John’s parents had never told him about. They said that the wondering was all part of the experience. Now, as nerves twisted his stomach, he wished that they had spared him the experience and had simply told him.

A stern looking woman came into the room after a couple of minutes and introduced herself as Professor McGonagall. She gave a short speech about how houses at Hogwarts were like families, and explained about the point system. Then, finally, she led them into the Great Hall.

There were four long tables, with tons of students sitting at them, all watching the first years enter. John felt his face growing hot, and was sure that blush was slowly creeping across his cheeks. His eyes skimmed over the faces watching him, but he couldn’t find Sherlock’s face anywhere. Feeling nauseous, he focused his eyes straight ahead at a stool and hat that Professor McGonagall was setting out, wondering what on earth it was for.

The room grew quiet, and everybody looked to the hat expectantly. When it opened its mouth and began to sing, it took everything in John to keep from shouting out in surprise and fright. Indeed, a few first years around him jumped and let out a little embarrassed giggle.

“For those of you who don’t know me,  
I’m the Sorting Hat of old.  
Just put me on and suddenly  
Your house you will be told!

I know just where to put you,  
I know where you belong,  
And just so that you will know too  
I put it in a song!

If you think you’re brave and daring,  
Truly bold beyond compare,  
Then Gryffindor is where you’ll be  
And adventures you will share!

If you find you’re full of wit  
And really rather smart,  
Then you belong in Ravenclaw  
House of the cleverest hearts!

Perhaps you find you are patient,  
And find yourself rather loyal,  
Then Hufflepuff will be your home  
For you’re unafraid of toil.

Though if you consider yourself  
To be cunning and quite clever  
Then Slytherin is your true house  
And shall be your home forever.

And if you still are not quite sure  
Exactly where you lie,  
Then sit on down and try me on  
For I never tell a lie!

The room burst into applause when the hat’s song was over, but John was too nervous to clap. He wanted so badly to be put into Gryffindor like his father. This was his chance to make his father truly proud of him.

Of course, there were a ton of students that had to be sorted first. As the students were called up and their fates were determined, John took the chance to really scan the faces in the crowd. Finally, at the very end of the table full of students with green and silver ties, John recognized the back of Sherlock’s head by the curly black hair. Sherlock was bent over a book, not paying any attention at all to the sorting ceremony going on. That is, until John’s name was called.

As John sat down on the stool, his eyes met Sherlock’s for one moment before the hat slid over his eyes, blinding him.

“Ah, so you want to be in Gryffindor, hmm? Well, let’s see here… You certainly do have the potential to be an excellent Gryffindor… But—” John’s heart sank “—you would do so much better in HUFFLEPUFF!”

The hat was yanked off of his head, and John tried his hardest to keep his disappointment off of his face. Instead, he forced himself to smile and made his way over to the table of yellow and black, shaking the hands offered to him and accepting congratulations. He sat down next to Molly Hooper, who began prattling on about how wonderful it was that they were in the same house now, and wondering about where they would be sleeping and what classes would be like the next day.

All through the feast, John fought back the horrible image of his father’s face when he discovered that his son had been sorted into the most disappointing house at Hogwarts. This just proved that John was just as pathetic as his father had always thought. All of his dreams about impressing his father flew right out the window, and as the night wore on his depression became less and less bearable.

When it was finally time for everybody to turn in for the night, John made to follow his house prefect. However, a hand grabbed hold of his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“John, are you all right?” Sherlock asked as John turned to face him. John shrugged, trying to play off his disappointment as coolly as possible, not wanting Sherlock to see how truly upset he was. After all, the older boy was so collected all the time, and John didn’t want to seem weak to him.

“Yeah. I mean, Hufflepuff is nice,” John lied. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“I saw the look on your face up there, even if nobody else did,” Sherlock informed him. “I, unlike most of the other idiots in this school, observe.”

“Well, you observed wrong. I’m fine. But thanks for your concern. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that, John turned and walked away, hoping he had done so before Sherlock had been able to ‘observe’ the tears glistening in his eyes.


	3. G...Something Lestrade

The next day as Sherlock was making his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, he was intercepted by a fourth year Gryffindor whose name escaped Sherlock completely. The boy had untidy brown hair and stern brown eyes, and his grip on Sherlock’s arm was firm. Sherlock immediately considered hexing the boy, but then decided against it when it appeared that the action of grabbing Sherlock’s arm was not meant to be malicious.

“Oi, you’re Sherlock, right? Mycroft Holmes’s brother?”

Sherlock tensed. Perhaps he had been wrong in believing that the boy’s grip had no malicious intent. After all, whenever anybody stopped Sherlock to talk about his brother, it usually ended up in Sherlock being punched or hexed in some way.

“Who’s asking?” Sherlock asked cautiously.

“Greg Lestrade. We’ve met before,” the boy reminded Sherlock. Sherlock indeed remembered their initial introduction, which included a stray bludger to the gut on one of Sherlock’s evening walks. Lestrade was a beater for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and had apologized profusely for what had happened, much to Sherlock’s surprise. So Lestrade had stood apart from the other Gryffindors in Sherlock’s mind, although he could have sworn that the boy’s name had been Gavin…

“Yes, I remember,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade paused, as if waiting for Sherlock to continue, and then asked again, “So are you Mycroft’s brother?”

“Only in a biological sense,” Sherlock answered, and Lestrade’s eyebrows knitted together for a moment in confusion before deciding to let Sherlock’s peculiar answer go.

“Well, would you mind telling him that he can’t keep taking points away from Gryffindor every time he catches us working on our homework together? I tried to bring it up to McGonagall but she said that there’s no ‘evidence’ that he’s deducting points unfairly.”

“That’s just the way Mycroft is. He believes that sharing homework answers is the equivalent of cheating. I don’t think that anything I could say to him would change his mind on that,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “And quite frankly, I try to stay away from my brother at all costs.”

Lestrade ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and a few Gryffindor girls that were passing tittered and gaped as he did so. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The female population in Hogwarts was so easily titillated. Lestrade smiled sheepishly when he realized what had happened.

“They only like me because I play Quidditch,” he explained.

“Clearly,” Sherlock said. Lestrade appeared taken aback by his bluntness, but Sherlock ignored this and turned to leave. He had hoped to see John off before his first class. The boy had been obviously distressed by his house placement, and Sherlock wanted to make sure that he was okay now. It was a strange feeling for Sherlock, caring so much about the emotions of another person. He wasn’t quite used to it.

“So are you going to try out for your house’s Quidditch team this year?” Lestrade asked, falling into step beside Sherlock as he walked down the stairs into the Entrance Hall.

“No.”

“Well why not? Don’t you want all of the ladies fawning over you?” Lestrade asked in what Sherlock assumed was a teasing manner, although he could never quite tell when someone was joking with him.

“Not particularly, no.”

“Oh.” Lestrade thought for a second, and then asked, “You’re not…? I mean, it’s fine if you are. But are you—?”

“I’ve never given sexual orientation much thought,” Sherlock replied evenly. Lestrade blanched.

“You’re twelve, how do you know about… that?”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m not uneducated. I was reading books on sexual orientation and reproduction when I was seven years old. The concept is not difficult to grasp, although I am unsure why—”

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade said, cutting Sherlock off. His cheeks were flushed and he looked desperate to be anywhere else. “I’ll see you later.”

With that, the boy left him to sit down at the Gryffindor table and Sherlock found an empty spot at the Slytherin table to eat his breakfast. As Sherlock situated himself, he peered through the bodies sitting around the Ravenclaw table to examine the Hufflepuff table, hoping to catch a glimpse of John. However, the younger boy was nowhere to be seen, causing an uncomfortable feeling to settle in Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock ignored this feeling, however, and dug in his bag for the textbook that he hadn’t been able to finish reading while on the train. He propped it open on the table and then read it as he absentmindedly ate his breakfast, eventually forgetting about the food altogether as he became engrossed in the text.

He was only startled out of his reading trance when his class schedule was placed in front of him. Somewhat disinterested, he read over it before turning his attention back to his textbook. However, he was shocked to notice someone sitting almost uncomfortably close to him, resting their elbow on his open book. Sherlock looked up in surprise to see John sitting there, grinning widely at him.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, glancing around as if expecting someone to wrestle the Hufflepuff boy from the Slytherin table. Indeed, a few Slytherins appeared to be disgruntled by the fact that someone with a yellow tie was sullying their sea of green.

“I wanted to say hi!” John said cheerfully, grabbing a piece of bacon and chomping down on it. “I tried to get your attention earlier, but you were reading, so I decided to come to you.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Sherlock said, blinking twice in shock. He wasn’t used to someone wanting to ‘get his attention.’

“It’s alright. But anyway, I don’t actually know if I’m supposed to be sitting here,” John said, casting a nervous glance at all of the glares he was receiving from Sherlock’s fellow Slytherins. “I just wanted to say hi is all.”

As John began to stand up, Sherlock finally shook away his surprise and managed to ask, “Are you doing alright?”

John nodded. “Yeah, it’s really great here so far. I’m excited to start classes.”

Sherlock smiled tentatively. “I’m glad.”

John returned his grin before casting one more nervous glance around the table and standing up. “Alright, well I’m going to get ready for my first class. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Bye.” Sherlock watched as the boy bounded away. His smile slowly faded, but the corners of his mouth remained slightly upturned. It would be nice to have a friend. Last year had been quite lonely, although Sherlock never would have admitted it. In fact, most of Sherlock’s life had been lonely. Making friends had never been something he was good at, and even now he didn’t understand what he had done right in order to make John like him. 

He wondered how long it would last.


	4. A Rose by Any Other Name

“Who was that you were talking to?” Molly asked as John rejoined her at the Hufflepuff table.

“His name’s Sherlock. He’s my friend,” John replied, picking up his class schedule and examining it. He was most excited for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he didn’t have that until Wednesday afternoon. First thing today, however, he had Transfiguration, which he was also pretty excited for. It would be interesting at the very least.

“Oh. How did you meet him?” Molly asked, her eyes focused on Sherlock’s dark, curly hair, which was the only part of him visible since he had returned to reading his textbook.

“On the train. He let me sit with him.”

“Is he nice?”

John hesitated, shifting his gaze to Sherlock as well. “He’s, uh… I actually don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know?”

“Well, he’s nice enough to me. But he doesn’t seem very well liked. He told me that he doesn’t have any friends,” John explained.

“That’s sad. It must be very lonely, not having any friends,” Molly said, and John nodded in agreement.

“Yeah. That’s why I told him that I would be his friend.”

“Oh, that’s so nice of you! You’re such a nice person, John, I wish I was more like you. To be honest, I wouldn’t be brave enough to approach a Slytherin, I hear that they’re dreadfully mean. I mean, I don’t know much about them, since I never even knew about Hogwarts until I got my acceptance letter, but from what I hear they’re full of dark wizards and the like. Isn’t it odd that even the Slytherins don’t like him? Maybe it’s because they’re afraid of him. He does look pretty stand-offish, doesn’t he? Oh, but you must never judge a book by its cover I suppose—”

“Yeah, um, Molly? I think it’s time for us to get to class,” John interrupted, gesturing to the almost empty Great Hall.

“Oh! Oh no! Oh I always do that, I can’t seem to stop rambling once I’ve started. One time when I was little…” On she went as John led her out of the Great Hall and managed to find his way to the Transfiguration classroom just before the class started. She only finally stopped talking when the cat sitting upon Professor McGonagall’s desk transformed into the professor herself. Everyone clapped and cheered in astonishment, and then their first lesson began. It was mainly all theory, but toward the end Professor McGonagall passed out matchsticks and taught them the incantation to transfigure it into a sewing needle. John managed to make his matchstick shiny and metallic, but was unable to fully transform it.

“Good work, Mr. Watson,” the professor praised him. “You’re very close.”

“Thank you,” John replied with a smile, although he felt the stirrings of failure within his chest. His father always bragged about how he had been able to turn the matchstick into a needle on his first day of class. John had at least hoped to follow after his father in that regard.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the son of Reginald Watson, would you?” Professor McGonagall asked, and John nodded excitedly. “I remember him well. Very bright young boy, top of his class. He was a bit arrogant sometimes, and had a knack for getting into trouble, but all in all he was a good student. Married Valerie Turner if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes, ma’am,” John said, enjoying the attention he was receiving about his father.

“I’d always hoped that his children would be in Gryffindor—I’m the head of Gryffindor house, you know. I’m actually a bit surprised that you’re in Hufflepuff, but of course Hufflepuff is an honorable house.”

There it was. The one thing John had known would happen since that blasted sorting hat had shouted the word ‘Hufflepuff.’ ‘Oh, I never expected Reginald Watson’s boy to be in Hufflepuff.’ He’d pictured how many people would say it to him, all of the different emotions they would have while they said it—from shock to pity—and worst of all, he’d pictured his father’s embarrassment when these things were said in front of him.

As the professor walked away, John stared down at his shiny, metallic matchstick. It was just like him. Being made of metal made it strong like a Gryffindor. A matchstick had logical use like a Ravenclaw. But altogether a metallic matchstick was as useless as a Hufflepuff. Irritably, he brushed it onto the floor and gathered his books, exiting the room before all of his classmates as soon as the professor dismissed them.

He had about fifteen minutes before his next class, and so he quickly ducked into a narrow, dark corridor that many people were passing without notice as they walked and chatted with each other. John sank to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and staring dejectedly at the stone wall across from him, tears leaking one by one from the corners of his eyes. He had tried to be okay with his house placement, but at the moment he hated everything about Hufflepuff and about himself.

“John?” a voice asked from the entrance of the corridor, and John looked up to see Sherlock standing there, his head slightly cocked in curiosity. “What are you doing?”

John sniffed and tried to discretely wipe the tears from his eyes. “Nothing. Just sitting here.”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate before entering the corridor and standing over John, appearing not quite sure what to do in this situation. John felt his face flush with embarrassment at being caught crying, and he quickly cleared his throat before scrambling to his feet. Sherlock watched him do so with an unreadable expression, and John felt more than uncomfortable under the older boy’s gaze.

“I’m fine. Really,” John assured him.

“I never insinuated that you weren’t,” Sherlock replied, though his eyes still closely watched John.

They stood in silence for a moment, and then John asked, “Do you ever hate being a Slytherin?”

“I told you before, I’m impartial to the whole experience.”

“Yeah, right…” John said, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the stone floor.

“I suppose, though, that I cannot imagine myself in any other house,” Sherlock admitted after a moment. John looked up at him, eyes wide.

“So you don’t wish that you were in Ravenclaw? Or some other house?”

“Not really, no. Really, I had expected to be sorted into Ravenclaw, but I’d never put any importance into which house I was sorted into. Really, it doesn’t particularly matter which house you’re sorted into. Or at least that’s how I felt about it. It isn’t as though the sorting hat believing me to be Slytherin changes my enjoyment of knowledge and learning.”

John thought about this for a moment. Maybe Sherlock was right. Just because the sorting hat thought that John belonged in Hufflepuff, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be able to make his father proud. He would just have to work harder to show his father that he could be just as much of a Gryffindor as he was a Hufflepuff. This brought a small smile to John’s lips.

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome, John.” Sherlock paused, and then asked, “Don’t you have a class to be getting to?”

John’s heart dropped as he realized that he would probably be late for his next class. “Oh no.”

“What class do you have next?”

“Double potions.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll walk with you and we can tell Professor Snape that you were lost. I’m his best student, so he’ll forgive you as long as I’m there to excuse you.”

And with that, Sherlock led John out of the dark corridor and into the better lit main corridor. John was thankful now that he had befriended Sherlock. Perhaps there was a reason that people didn’t like the boy, but he was nice to John, and that was really all that mattered.


	5. Deductions

Sherlock quickly came to realize that having a friend required quite a bit of effort on his part, effort that he was not used to putting forth. Instead of spending hours alone in the library on the weekends, he instead had to endure the company of the first year boy. Though perhaps endure wasn’t the correct word to use here. For any other person it may have been, but John’s company wasn’t something that someone endured. Instead, it simply posed as a distraction to Sherlock. It was a distraction that Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about. On one hand, John could go on forever talking about the most mundane things, like the goings-on in the news or his favorite singer. On the other hand, Sherlock finally had someone to talk things through with, a role previously filled by a skull that he kept on his nightstand, much to the distress of the other second year Slytherin boys.

 “…Of course, the most logical way to go about this particular conundrum would be to—” Sherlock was saying, staring down at his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework. He and John were in the library, sitting across from each other at a table, each of them working on their assignments.

 “Sherlock, I don’t actually understand most of what you’re saying,” John interrupted him.

 “Yes, well, that’s because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock said, and then glanced up to see John scowling at him. He added, “Oh, don’t give me that look. Practically everyone is.”

 “Or maybe you’re too interested in acting like a know-it-all,” John shot back, and Sherlock snorted. 

“I’m hardly a know-it-all simply because of my advanced vocabulary and problem solving skills, at least not in the derogatory connotation of the phrase.” 

“That’s not what I mean. What I mean is that you act like you know everything. Maybe you should just admit that you don’t know the answer to this problem, and then you can ask someone your year for help,” John offered, raising his eyebrows. 

“Of course I don’t know the answer yet. That is the point of homework if I’m not mistaken. Talking things through is how I’m able to work things out. Things become clearer outside of my mind palace.” 

“Your… Your what?” 

“Hm? Oh, my mind palace. It’s how I store all of the important information that I have, and how I sort out the things that I deem unimportant. Rooms that I have created to hold all of my knowledge so that I can sort though it quickly and efficiently,” Sherlock explained. 

“Brains don’t work like that,” John argued. “You can’t just categorize your thoughts and memories.” 

“I can, and I do.” 

“But just the other day you asked me if the sun revolved around the Earth!” John exclaimed, clearly believing this to be proof that Sherlock’s mind palace did not exist. 

“Because that is information that I have deleted from my mind palace.” 

“Why on earth would you do something like that?” 

“Because it isn’t relevant.” 

“How isn’t that relevant? That’s something that everybody knows!” 

“Precisely, so why waste space remembering it when I can just ask the person nearest to me how it works?” Sherlock replied simply. John looked as though he might argue, but then thought better of it. Instead, he simply shook his head and then went back to working on his homework. Sherlock watched him scribble away at the essay for a few minutes before closing his own textbook and leaning back in his chair, examining the people sitting at the far end of their table. He began to practice deducing things about them, a fun game that he enjoyed playing whenever he became bored. A Ravenclaw girl, most likely a third year, caught his attention first. His eyes brushed over every inch of her in order to obtain important information. 

“You like her?” John asked. Sherlock looked back at him, confused. 

“What?” 

“That girl you’re looking at. Do you fancy her?” John clarified, and Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together. 

“Why would you come to that conclusion?” 

“Because you were staring at her.” 

“I was looking at her because I was deducing things about her,” Sherlock said, unclear of where the misunderstanding lied. 

“What do you mean ‘deducing things about her’?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “For instance, she has some form of anxiety. She has a pet cat here at school with her, she is left handed, she recently had her hair cut, and she hasn’t done her laundry in over a week. Those are all of the things I have noticed so far.” 

John stared at Sherlock for a second before asking, “How do you know those things about her? Do you know her?” 

“Not remotely. I can tell that she has a form of anxiety since her fingernails are bitten down to the quick. Nail biting is a nervous habit, and to chew them to the point of bleeding (which I can tell they recently have by the flecks of blood on the nails themselves) signals a severe nervous disorder, most likely anxiety of some kind. 

“As for the rest, her robes are clearly covered in the fur of a calico cat. I can assume it’s only one cat since that is all she is allowed to own here, and I can assume that it’s hers because of the few bits of white fur that I can see tangled in her hair, which leads me to believe that she has slept in the same bed with the cat, which would only usually happen if the cat belonged to her. Of course I could be incorrect. 

“I can tell that she is left handed because although she is not holding a quill at this time, there is a bit of ink smudged between her index and middle fingers on her left hand, as well as drips on ink on her left thumb nail. I know that she recently had her hair cut because there are a few long strands of red hair on her robes the same color as her own hair, although not the length that it is now. And I can tell that she hasn’t done her laundry in over a week because of the surplus of cat fur on her clothes as well as the strands of her own longer hair, and also the disheveled state of her clothes.” 

John stared at Sherlock, who awaited a reaction. The one that he got surprised him: 

“Do me.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Deduce me. What can you figure out about me?” John said excitedly, scooting to the edge of his seat. 

“Oh. Well, uh…” Sherlock took a moment and thought back over what he’d learned about John the past few weeks through sheer observation, and then matched that with what he could see right now. “You’re most likely from England, raised in an at least somewhat wealthy family. You’re the youngest both in your immediate and extended family. You own a dog, a Saint Bernard if I’m not mistaken. You have an older brother, who for one reason or another did not attend Hogwarts, possibly by personal choice, more likely because he was born a Squib. You don’t have a close relationship with your brother, and you’re desperate to impress your father but it’s a nearly impossible task. How did I do?” 

John simply stared at Sherlock, who shifted uncomfortably. He shouldn’t have done that. The last time he’d deduced someone to their face they had ended up putting the body bind on him and leaving him in a hidden corridor overnight. Of course, he didn’t believe that John was capable of that—in fact, the odds of John even knowing how to perform the body bind curse were slim—but this was probably a good way to lose his one and only friend. 

“Bloody hell. That was amazing.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “It was?” 

“Yeah!” 

“That’s… not the reaction I was expecting, I suppose.” 

“What reaction were you expecting?” 

“One with a bit more cursing, to be frank.” The two boys looked at each other for a moment, and then they both began laughing loudly, enough that they earned a disgruntled “shoosh” from the Ravenclaw girl. The boys quieted their laughing to snickers. 

“How did you figure it all out?” John asked once he had calmed himself, leaning forward in his seat, resting his arms on the table in front of him. 

“Well, I guessed that you were from England based solely on your accent. You speak with a Received Pronunciation accent, which of course is not entirely indicative of you being from England, but it is a good place to start since it has a negligible presence in Scotland and Northern Ireland and is arguably losing its prestige status in Wales. The fact that you speak with a RP accent also aided me in predicting your status of wealth, as well as your tan. It was a particularly rainy summer throughout the United Kingdom, especially these past few weeks, so one would assume that you traveled somewhere sunny and warm shortly before starting school. The ability to travel and then also purchase all of your school supplies new suggests some form of wealth, or at least that your family is financially well-off. 

“The way you carry yourself suggests your age in relation to your family. The youngest always tends to have a softness to them, bred from babying and coddling. Of course, there’s also an air of maturity about you, which suggests that you’ve grown up watching the successes and failures of close family members older than you, and that you’re learning from their experiences. The dog was a long shot, assumed only by the fur that was on your clothes the day you sat with me on the train. I only guessed the breed based on the length of the fur and the fact that the color of the fur was white and brown. 

“The fact that you have an older sibling, most likely a brother, is deduced by the fact that you do your homework in a brand new notebook with the name ‘Harry Watson’ engraved in the upper right hand corner of the cover. It could be your father, except that I have it on good authority that your father’s name is Reginald—the person who told me acted as though I should be familiar with that name, although I have no idea why I would be—so the journal would have to belong to another family member. Hence your brother. I guess older because of my previous statement about you being the youngest in your family. The other part about your brother I also assume because of the notebook. As I noted earlier, it’s brand new, and the cover is adorned with the Hogwarts crest. Because of this, I assume that the notebook was gifted to him under the assumption that he would be attending Hogwarts. This clearly did not come to pass, however, and so he handed it down to you. Of course his not attending Hogwarts could have been a personal choice, but the fact that he passed the notebook on to you instead of simply tossing it in the bin seems to imply that the notebook has some sort of sentimental meaning to him—that being that he was looking forward to attending Hogwarts before discovering that he wouldn’t be. And I believe that you have a strained relationship with him based on the carelessness with which you treat the notebook. If you cared about its sentimental value you would be more concerned when its cover was marred with ink blots or when you accidentally spilled pumpkin juice on it, but you weren’t. 

“As for your father, your need to please him is almost painfully obvious. Your disdain for being sorted into Hufflepuff, your almost manic desire to achieve perfect marks in your classes, and your interest in playing Quidditch next year all point to seeking parental approval of some kind. When you were on the train you mentioned wanting to be in Gryffindor and become an Auror like your father, which practically screams that you’re seeking to impress him.” 

Sherlock ended his speech abruptly, and John sat shell-shocked for a few moments before saying, “You only got one thing wrong.” 

Sherlock sighed. “What was it? Was it the dog? I knew that one was a wild guess, but I had hoped—” 

“No, not the dog. Harry. She’s my sister.” 

“Your…?” 

“It stands for Harriet.” 

“Sister. There’s always something…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took so long for me to get back to this, guys! School was crazy busy, and I was spending my spare time writing a novel. But I'm back, and boy am I glad about that! I hope you guys enjoyed, much more to come soon!


	6. Friend of a Freak

It had been three weeks since John was sorted into Hufflepuff, and so far his parents hadn’t written him even a single letter. Their silence was louder than all of the howlers in the world, although John knew that it was his father’s doing, not his mother’s. He knew that, if it were up to her, John would have received a letter a day by now. Of course, his time here hadn’t been completely devoid of letters. Harry had somehow gotten her hands on one of the family owls and sent him a letter congratulating him on his sorting and wishing him a successful school year. John had been in the process of crumpling the letter and tossing it in the bin when he was suddenly struck by a wave of emotion and ended up flattening the letter and staring at it for a long time. After some deliberation he decided to bury it at the bottom of his trunk. 

Getting the cold shoulder from his parents was painful, but he decided to use it as motivation to do even better in his studies so that he could prove that he was just as good as any Gryffindor. By his third Transfiguration class he was performing better than all of his fellow Hufflepuffs and even a few of the Ravenclaws in his class. Of course, Professor McGonagall wasn’t one to choose favorites, but she did always make a point of stopping to complement his work, sometimes offering hints on how to perform the spell with more ease next time. John enjoyed the attention immensely, and he felt that soon he would have something to show his parents that would make them proud. 

He was doing very well in all of his other classes, too, especially in Defense Against the Dark Arts. This had been the class that he was most looking forward to, and although they hadn’t started in on anything practical just yet he was doing very well with his homework and in-class participation. He always had the answer when Professor Lupin called on him, and he was the one that first year Hufflepuffs flocked to when in need of homework help. Sometimes, while sitting in the library with Sherlock, one of his fellow Hufflepuff first years would meekly approach the table and ask John about how to go about answering a particular question. Sherlock would glare at the person in annoyance, but John was happy to help. Once, after one such situation had occurred, John asked, “Does it bother you that they come to me for help?” 

“Not in the slightest.” 

“Then why do you always glare?” 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and then buried his nose in his book without answering John’s question. Irritated, John reached across the table and placed his hand on the book, pushing it down so that it was no longer hiding his friend’s face. 

“Well?” 

“Well what?” Sherlock snapped. 

“Well why do you always glare when people ask me for help?” 

“Because they’re a distraction.” 

“I’ve seen you ignore a kid running around with a book magically clamped onto their nose. You’ll have to come up with a better excuse than that.” This was true. A third year Gryffindor had managed to sneak into the forbidden section of the library when Madam Pince was away from her desk helping someone look for a book. He had emerged screaming at the top of his lungs, the book firmly pinching his nose, running around the library like a chicken with its head cut off. It had taken Madam Pince fifteen minutes to catch the boy, and another five to persuade the book to let him go. All the while, Sherlock had sat with his own nose stuck in a book, albeit much more willingly, and hadn’t even glanced up once to see what the commotion was about. When John had asked him about it later he had seemed genuinely shocked to learn that anything out of the ordinary had been happening around him. 

“I mean that they’re a distraction to you,” Sherlock sighed. 

“It’s not that big of a bother. I’m happy to help—” 

“But if you wish to become the best in your year, you can’t spend all of your time helping other people.” 

“I can’t not help them, Sherlock.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because… Because it’s not decent. It’s rude to not help somebody when you can.” 

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, head cocked, and then returned his attention to his book as he said, “I don’t quite understand how it was seen as such a shock that you were sorted into Hufflepuff.” 

John knew that Sherlock’s words weren’t meant to hurt him, but they did sting. It was bad enough that he had been sorted into Hufflepuff. Now Sherlock was saying that it wasn’t even a surprise? Why, because he chose to help people with their homework when they asked? With a huff, John stood, gathering all of his books and quills and shoving them haphazardly into his bag. 

Sherlock’s eyes peered up at him over the edge of his book. “Where are you going?” 

“I’ve finished my homework. I’m going for a walk.” 

“Would you like me to join you?” 

“No.” John’s voice was sharp, and Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in surprise. John didn’t care, however. Right now he just needed to get away from Sherlock and everyone else in this bloody school. Irritably, he flung his bag over his shoulder and then stormed out of the library. 

He eventually found himself walking the perimeter of the Quidditch pitch, watching as a few people flew about in the air, tossing a quaffle around between them. Tryouts had happened last week, and John had completely forgotten about them, not that it mattered much since he was a first year and it was against the rules for a first year to play Quidditch. He wished that he could have tried out, though. Becoming a seeker just like his dad would be the perfect way to prove that he really was a Watson. That even though he wasn’t Gryffindor, he was still worth something.

“OI! HEADS UP!” a voice shouted at John, but it was too late, for a quaffle had found its way to John and hit him squarely in the temple, effectively knocking him to the ground. Two people landed ungracefully next to him, leaping off of their brooms and hurrying to his side. “Are you alright?” 

The speaker was an older Gryffindor boy, and he offered his hand out to the incredibly dazed John. After a moment, John accepted the boy’s outstretched hand, and he was pulled to his feet easily. John then made sure that he was steady before saying, “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“I guess I don’t know my own strength,” the boy laughed, and his companion, a slender girl with curly brown hair, rolled her eyes.

“He threw it right over my head. That’s what’ll lose us the cup.” 

“Nah, have you seen the other teams? Even if they manage to get a few good players at tryouts they’ve got nothing on us.” The boy seemed confident as he spoke, but then seemed to notice that John wasn’t a Gryffindor like them. “Sorry. I mean, everybody has a shot. Gryffindor just seems to have a better one this year. Anyway, I’m Greg.” 

John smiled meekly. “Hi.” 

“And I’m Sally.” The girl offered her hand for a handshake and John took it. 

“Hey,” Greg said in a moment of sudden realization. “You’re that kid that hangs out with Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” 

“No way, that freak hasn’t got any friends,” Sally snickered. 

“Yeah, actually, he does,” John said irritably. Sure, he was upset with Sherlock, but he wasn’t about to let someone talk bad about him. 

Sally’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You don’t look the type.” 

This made John’s indignation for his friend freeze up. “What do you mean?” 

“I figured that if he ever managed to manipulate someone into being friends with him, they would have to be just as insane as he is.” 

“He’s not insane…” 

“Really? Has he done that thing yet where he figures out your whole life story just by looking at you? It’s freakish.”

“He told me about my parent’s divorce before I even knew about it,” Greg chuckled, but Sally glared at him. 

“It’s not funny. It’s scary. Just you wait, there’s a reason Sherlock Holmes was sorted into Slytherin. That’s the house that practically breeds dark wizards, and if he isn’t one in the making I’ll eat my broom.” 

“Sherlock isn’t… I mean, he’s not…” John stuttered, wanting to defend his friend but unsure of how to do so. 

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Greg said, throwing an arm around John’s shoulders. “Sally just likes to throw around accusations. I’ve talked to Sherlock, and he seems like a decent guy. Odd, but nice enough. Don’t let her get to you.” 

Sally rolled her eyes and mounted her broom. “Whatever. Hurry up, we need to get in another hour’s worth of practice before the sun goes down.” As she flew away into the sky, Greg removed his arm from John’s shoulders and gave him a kind smile. 

“Really, don’t let what she said bother you. Are you sure you’re okay?” John nodded. “Alright. Well, I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you around. Tell Sherlock I said hi.” 

And with that he was gone, and John was left standing there, bemused and incredibly uncertain about what had just happened.


	7. The Most Pointless Sport

Sherlock detested Quidditch. 

Last year, he’d avoided each and every game, opting to enjoy the serenity of the library. This year, though, he had a John Watson. And John Watson wouldn’t rest until he managed to drag Sherlock out to the first game of the season, which happened to be Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin. John thought it would be fun to have a bit of friendly competition between them, rooting for opposite teams. And so that was how Sherlock ended up standing amongst a group of Hufflepuff first and second years, watching a game whose rules were dubious at best, wishing that he could instead be studying the effect of adding Asphodel to a shrinking potion or reading his Charms textbook over again. 

“Isn’t this great?” John shouted over the roar of the crowd around them. He was waving a small yellow-and-black-striped flag in the air as if his life depended upon it. He’d given a green-and-silver flag to Sherlock to wave, too, but Sherlock had simply stuck it in the pocket of his robes and was now standing stiffly, wincing every time some Hufflepuff accidentally bumped into him. 

“I can’t say that I understand the appeal, no,” Sherlock replied. 

“Well, the game hasn’t started yet. You’ll see once it’s started!” 

Sherlock highly doubted this, but he was willing to try anything once for his friend. He let his eyes wander over the large crowds that filled the stands, wondering what the odds were that somebody would get trampled and the game would be canceled. Just as he was contemplating the idea of using his magic to start a fire that could spur a stampede that would lead to said trampling, a voice shouted over the crowd, “Bloody hell, is that Sherlock Holmes?” 

Shoving his way through the crowd was G… G… Geoffrey Lestrade? Whatever. It was Lestrade, followed closely by fellow Gryffindor Sally Donovan and Sally’s Ravenclaw booty call Philip Anderson. Sherlock had always said that the sorting hat must have been confused when sorting Anderson into Ravenclaw, because as far as he had seen, the boy was stupider than every other idiot in this entire school. Of course, Sherlock’s disdain for Anderson was readily returned, and Donovan had always found joy in labeling Sherlock as a freak. 

“I thought that the Holmes brothers were too good for Quidditch?” Lestrade asked, punching Sherlock’s bicep in what Sherlock assumed was supposed to be a friendly manner. Sherlock tried his best to not look like interacting with the boy was causing him physical pain. 

“John insisted that I give it a try.” 

“Good man,” Lestrade enthused, smacking John on the back, nearly sending the small boy tumbling forward down the stands. 

“Will it be starting soon?” Sherlock asked impatiently, eyeing the teams' locker rooms. “I have other things that require my attention today.” 

“Any minute now,” Lestrade assured him. “Once things kick off, you’ll see just how great Quidditch really is. You’ll be addicted in no time.” 

“Doubtful.” 

Lestrade turned to John. “Is he always this cheerful?” 

“You shouldn’t have even brought him, John. If he thinks Quidditch is such a waste of time, you should have let him spare us the misery of his company,” Donovan drawled, and Anderson snickered. 

“Oi, that’s enough out of you,” Lestrade snapped. 

Sherlock had to admit, he appreciated Lestrade standing up for him. That didn’t happen very often, and if he was being honest, he would have never expected it from a Gryffindor of all people. Of course John was nice to him. It was the Hufflepuff in him, though Sherlock still wasn’t sure exactly how long that loyalty would last. But Lestrade had no reason to take pity on a stand-offish, anti-social second year Slytherin. 

“What? She’s got a point. If the psychopath doesn’t want to be here, then why impose him on all of us?” Anderson argued. 

“I’m a high-functioning sociopath, Anderson, do your research. And stop talking, you lower the I.Q. of the whole castle.” 

John snickered beside Sherlock, and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward, pleased that he’d been able to make John laugh. Even Lestrade was fighting back a smile at the affronted look on Anderson’s face. 

Donovan snorted and grabbed Anderson’s arm, saying, “We don’t need to deal with this. Let’s go sit with the Gryffindors, Phil.” Then, to Lestrade, she asked, “Greg, you coming?” 

Ah! Greg! That was it. 

Lestrade glanced between Sherlock and John and Anderson and Donovan before saying, “I’ll see you after.” 

Donovan’s lip turned up into a sneer, and she guided Anderson away, casting one last disgusted look over her shoulder before merging with the sea of scarlet and gold. As they disappeared, a small, mousy girl sporting numerous pieces of Hufflepuff apparel appeared at Sherlock’s shoulder, her eyes wide with admiration. He glanced down at her curiously before turning to John and saying, “Who is this and why is she staring at me?” 

This seemed to snap the girl out of her trance. “Oh! Sorry! Sorry, I’m Molly. Molly Hooper. John’s friend. We’re in Hufflepuff together—well, I suppose you could tell that from what I’m wearing, and John says that you’re excellent at deducing things about people. I wonder, what can you deduce about me? Actually, I think I’d rather not know, John says that you have a habit of making people cry when you deduce things about them. And I’m a pretty easy crier, though maybe you’ve probably already deduced that about me. I might not be that hard to read, actually. My mum says that she can read me like an open book, and I—” 

Sherlock turned to John once more. “Make her stop.” 

“Right, yes,” John said, grabbing Molly’s arm, causing her rambling to cut off mid-sentence. “Molly, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Molly.” 

Molly held her hand out for Sherlock to shake. “I’m excited to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard so much about you, and I’ve seen you around the school, but—” 

Sherlock accepted her handshake simply as an excuse to shut her up. “Yes, hello.” 

He would never admit it aloud, but Sherlock was actually a little jealous of Molly. He’d known that he wouldn’t be John’s only friend here at Hogwarts—indeed, the boy was far too friendly to only befriend one person in his seven years here—but to Sherlock this seemed to signify the beginning of the end of his and John’s friendship. Soon enough, John would have a group of Hufflepuff friends, possibly with a few Gryffindors and Ravenclaws mixed in, and then he wouldn’t need Sherlock anymore. His new friends would convince him that Sherlock was just dead weight that he was lugging about for no good reason, and eventually John would smarten up and cut his ties. To Sherlock, this seemed inevitable. He had just hoped that it wouldn’t happen so soon. 

“Molly and I met on the boat ride,” John explained. 

“Funny, you haven’t mentioned her before now. Why is that?” 

Molly looked a bit hurt by this, and John gave Sherlock a scolding look. “Because I’ve been wanting to introduce you in person but just haven’t had the chance.” 

This seemed like a poor excuse to Sherlock, but he didn’t push the issue. Just then, the players began filing onto the field, all of them whooping and waving at the stands, soaking in the attention that the whole school was giving them at that moment. Dejected, Sherlock settled in for a few hours of torture. 

“Don’t worry,” Molly stage whispered to him over the cheers of the crowd. “I don’t like Quidditch either. You and I can be confused together.” 

And Sherlock had to admit, even though he didn’t like the fact that Molly would undoubtedly replace Sherlock in John’s life someday, right now she wasn’t quite as unbearable as most people usually were. So he gave her a small smile and tried his best to enjoy the game for John’s sake.


	8. Big Brother is Watching

It was getting dangerously close to the Christmas holiday, and John still hadn’t heard anything from his parents. If it wasn’t for Harry sending him a letter every other week, he might have started to worry that his family had somehow died while he was away. He still refused to answer any of his sister’s letters, still bitter at her about what had happened the week before he’d left for school, but he had to admit that it was nice to have some link to the outside world. Her letters didn’t soothe his worries about where he’d be spending the holidays, however. 

Sherlock had made it perfectly clear that the only reason he was going home for the holiday was because it would upset his mother if he remained at Hogwarts. Otherwise, he insisted, he would be avoiding any interaction with his brother Mycroft at all costs. A brother which John had somehow never met, even after knowing Sherlock for well over two months now. All John knew about this mysterious older brother was that he was a seventh year, Head Boy, and, according to Sherlock, insufferable. John wasn’t completely sure if he believed that last fact, however. Sherlock was known to be strongly opinionated about things, usually to an unreasonable degree. 

John’s curiosity about this mystery brother was satiated one day, though, when he was cornered by two rather pretty sixth year Slytherin girls. He had been on his way to the library to meet up with Sherlock when they had stepped out from either end of the otherwise—and oddly—empty corridor. John had originally thought nothing of it, until one of the girls blocked his way and the other came up uncomfortably close behind him. Nervously, he’d grabbed his wand and tried to remember any spell that he’d learned in the past few months here at Hogwarts that could help him, but in the moment every single spell left his head save for “Alohamora,” and that wouldn’t do him much good unless the girls were cornering him in order to ask him to unlock a door for them. 

“We need you to come with us,” the girl blocking his way said, her voice velvety smooth. John’s eyes widened fearfully. 

“W-Why?” 

“You’ll see,” said the girl behind him. Her voice was deeper, but equally smooth. 

And with that, they’d each grabbed him by an arm and led him up to the seventh floor, to a corridor whose one wall was taken up almost completely by a tapestry adorned with the image of some man attempting to teach trolls how to perform ballet. One of the girls began to pace back and forth, leaving the other to hold tightly to John’s bicep, as if he would dare try to escape. John hoped that Sherlock would recognize his absence soon enough, and would come looking for him. Of course, he knew the chances of that were slim. Although he knew that Sherlock enjoyed his company, he also knew that the boy had a habit of talking to him even when he wasn’t around. 

John was trembling by the time the girl had finished pacing, and he watched with wide, terrified eyes as an ornate door materialized on the wall opposite the tapestry. The girl who had been pacing walked over and opened the door, and the other led him into the mysterious room beyond. 

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been an office space made completely of grey marble. As he allowed himself to be drug up to the modernist wooden desk, he stared around the room in amazement. It looked to be a very expensive room belonging to a very important person, with eerie orange lights—electric, John noted—mounted to the walls, along with a set of mirrors across from each other. Overhead, what appeared to be sunlight was filtering through a series of square holes cut into the ceiling, forming a checkerboard pattern of sorts. Behind the desk hung the portrait of some woman, who was regally pacing from one side of the frame to the other, watching John with cool, calculating eyes. And she wasn’t the only one. Sitting at the desk was a boy—though, possibly _man_ was more accurate a description—that had his blue-grey eyes trained on John. His face was long and slender, everything about him appearing rather unfriendly. 

“John Watson,” the mystery man drawled, leaning back in his expensive-looking chair and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, an action John had watched Sherlock do on multiple occasions when trying to solve a rather difficult homework question or deduce something about a stranger. John swallowed hard, hands trembling by his sides. “What is it that makes you so special, John Watson?” 

“I-I don’t really know,” John answered honestly, still rather confused about what he was doing here. He went to glance at the woman who had led him in, but found that she was no longer at his side. In fact, she wasn’t even in the room anymore. She had left, and closed the door behind her, so that it was only John and the mystery man now. He fingered his wand in his robe pocket, still trying to think of any spell that could help him get out of this situation, but nothing was coming to him. 

“It’s funny. My dear brother seems to have taken a liking to you.” The man stood up now, and he absolutely towered over John’s eleven-year-old self. John couldn’t keep himself from taking a hesitant step back. “The thing is, in his twelve years on this earth, I’ve never seen him even try to make friends with someone. I watched as mummy arranged playdate after playdate with other children throughout his early childhood, and none stuck. So what is it about you that caught and held his attention?” 

John had put two and two together by now. This was Mycroft. It had to be. The family resemblance was there, and the shiny Head Boy pin attached to his green-lined robes was easy to spot. Knowing the identity of the mystery man made him somewhat less intimidating, and John tried to muster up his courage, thinking of how disappointed his dad would be if he found out that John had been pushed around by someone like this. 

“I don’t think you give Sherlock enough credit,” John replied, his voice shaking slightly but otherwise firm. “I didn’t do anything special. I just offered to be his friend.” 

Mycroft’s eyes drifted from John’s forehead to his toes, and John got the uncomfortable feeling that he was deducing everything about him like Sherlock had that day in the library. It was significantly less pleasant when Mycroft did it, though. 

“You are aware, of course,” Mycroft said, walking around his desk and sitting down on the corner of it, raising his eyebrows at John, “that Sherlock has asked to invite you to our house for Christmas.” 

John, in fact, hadn’t the faintest clue what Mycroft was talking about. 

“I… I don’t…” 

“Ah, so he didn’t tell you. Interesting. Of course, my parents are more than happy to welcome you into our home, there’s no need for you to worry about that. The request simply piqued my curiosity. I’ve never known Sherlock to spend more than five minutes with another human being, much less want to invite them over for a full holiday. I knew that he’d been spending some time with you, but I suppose I just hadn’t realized how serious he was about this.” 

“About… About what?” John asked. 

“About _you_ ,” Mycroft replied, as if the answer was painfully obvious. Then he stood and walked back around to stand behind his desk, opening drawers until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a small leather pouch and dropped it in front of John, who stared at it dumbly. 

“What’s that?” 

“Monetary compensation. To ensure that you remain… involved with my brother.” 

John shifted his dumbfounded look from the pouch to Mycroft. “You’re… paying me to be his friend?” 

“I’ve known my brother longer than anybody. I know how… _trying_ he can be at times. This is simply reassurance that you won’t be deterred by him or his rather unsavory attitude.” 

John slowly reached out and picked up the pouch, glancing inside and blanching at the amount of galleons filling it. Then he placed it back on the desk and said, “You don’t have to pay me to be friends with him.” 

“I’d rather like to have the guarantee that you—” 

“I _like_ Sherlock,” John snapped, suddenly angry. He didn’t like the fact that Mycroft thought that his brother was so unlikable that John would need _payment_ to remain his friend. He didn’t like that one bit. “I like spending time with him, and I’m going to _keep_ enjoying spending time with him. I don’t need your money for that.” 

Mycroft watched John for a moment before slowly nodding and muttering, “Indeed.” 

“So… So thanks, but no thanks,” John said, pushing the pouch across the desk toward Mycroft, feeling as though the action was necessary to prove his point. Mycroft slowly, deliberately picked up the pouch and dropped it back into the drawer, his eyes never leaving John, who was feeling quite proud of himself for standing up against Mycroft. _Like a Gryffindor_ , he thought. 

“I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft said after a moment. “It was interesting to witness the depth of your loyalty to my brother. A true Hufflepuff, though and through, I suppose.” John’s stomach sunk at these words. 

After that, John was escorted back to the library by one of the two girls from earlier. She only left him once they were right outside of the door to the library. John was still trying to work out what had just happened as he sat down across from Sherlock, who didn’t even look up from the book he was reading. John almost thought that Sherlock hadn’t noticed his arrival, but then Sherlock said, “Where have you been?” 

“Your brother. He…” John didn’t even know what to say. How could he even explain what had just happened to him? He felt like he’d just taken part in some muggle spy movie. 

“Did he offer you monetary compensation to be my friend?” 

John was shocked. “Er, yeah, he did.” 

“Did you accept it?” 

“No! No, of course not.” 

Finally, Sherlock glanced up from his book and gave John a disapproving look. “Pity, we could have split it. Do think it through next time.” 

All John replied to this was, “I’d love to come to Christmas, thanks.” 

And he watched as Sherlock bit back a smile, lifting his textbook to hide his face.


	9. Ghosts, Ghouls, and Intellectual Debate

“So, I heard John Watson will be spending Christmas with the Holmeses,” Lestrade said as he jogged to catch up with Sherlock, who was on his way to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Sherlock didn’t even bother to glance at him. “Why wasn’t I invited? I’m hurt.” 

Now Sherlock sourly glared at Lestrade out of the corner of his eye, unamused by the boy’s teasing. “Are you quite done?” 

“What, just because John spends more time with you, that earns him an invitation?” 

“No, John earned an invitation by being significantly less of an idiot than you or anyone else in this school.” 

“I’m gonna let that slide,” Lestrade said, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Sherlock, who shrugged. “Anyway, that’s not why I actually wanted to talk to you.” 

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock made sure to make his displeasure in the conversation continuing perfectly clear to the Gryffindor boy. 

“Yeah. Believe it or not, I don’t actually look for validation in the form of holiday invites by second years. I actually wanted to ask you if you’ve talked to your brother about the whole ‘taking points off for “cheating”’ thing?” 

“I told you before, I don’t talk to my brother, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to change his mind.” 

Lestrade sighed, scratching the back of his neck as he thought about this. “I just… This is OWL year for me, you know? I’ve got to be able to study with people if I want a chance in hell to pass my tests.” 

“Then I suggest you find a tutor,” Sherlock said. They had reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and were now soliciting outside the door. “Mycroft only finds issue in people sharing answers. A tutor will help you with your homework without giving you the answers. In fact, it’s probably in your best interest if you hope to progress into your NEWT years.” 

“But where do I find a tutor this late into the year?” 

“That is, decidedly, not my problem.” And with that, Sherlock swept away into the classroom, leaving a frustrated Lestrade standing dumbly in the hallway. 

Sherlock took his usual seat in the back of the classroom. He liked to sit towards the back for multiple reasons, the first of which being that people didn’t tend to bother those who sat in the last row. Of course, that meant that he was surrounded by the idiots who sat in the back to avoid being called on, but it was a small price to pay. He also liked to sit in the back because it allowed him a better vantage point of his classmates. From here, he could observe them all without their knowledge, thus giving him the perfect chance to practice his deductions. And, finally, it put him as far away as possible from Irene Adler, who had, since the first class they’d shared together the previous year, made a point to challenge Sherlock intellectually whenever the opportunity presented itself. Not that Sherlock would have minded an intellectual debate, if it weren’t for the fact that Adler was, by far, the stupidest Ravenclaw he had ever met. 

“Alright, everyone,” Professor Lupin announced, striding into the room, a small smile on his lips. “We’re starting today’s class with a pop quiz.” 

The Slytherins all groaned while the Ravenclaws sat up straighter, their faces smug. Sherlock sneered as Adler glanced back at him, eyebrows raised. Professor Lupin’s pop quizzes were notorious for becoming a battleground for the two of them. 

“There’s no need for that. It’s a simple quiz, if you’ve done your homework.” The professor glanced around the room, making sure that everyone’s attention was on him. Sherlock observed the dark circles beneath the man’s eyes and the newest claw mark etched into his throat before quickly flipping through his mental calendar. Of course. There had been a full moon only two days ago. The man must still be recovering from his transformation into a werewolf. 

Sherlock had deduced that the professor was a werewolf the very first time he’d walked into this classroom. It was quite obvious, and he was convinced that his peers must have been completely daft if they didn’t recognize the professor’s condition. Of course, Sherlock didn’t care one way or the other if the professor was a werewolf or a vampire or even half-giant like Hagrid. The man was a decent teacher and quite kind to Sherlock, so he found himself somewhat fond of the professor, though he’d never admit that to anyone. 

“So, can anyone tell me the difference between a ghost and a ghoul?” 

Irene Adler’s hand shot up immediately. 

Professor Lupin cocked an eyebrow at her. “Yes, Miss Adler?” 

“A ghost is the imprint of a departed soul belonging to a witch or wizard left on the earth, while a ghoul is a relatively harmless creature that tends to take up residence in magical households.” 

“Very good—”

“Yes, very good, if you were looking for the most basic definitions of the creatures and not an actual explanation of their origins, histories, or even their characteristics.” 

The professor sighed. “Alright, Sherlock, would you like to elaborate on Irene’s answer?” 

“Ghosts are sentient beings whose souls remained on the earth after their death either because they feared death—a sentiment I don’t quite understand—or else because they had a strong connection to the location that they haunt. Ghouls are also sentient, but they are living creatures as opposed to apparitions, and they tend to make a frankly obscene amount of noise. They are somewhat dimwitted, and live off of bugs and other household pests, while ghosts do not need sustenance at all. Ghosts—” 

“Ghosts are unable to experience any form of physical pleasure,” Adler cut in, having turned completely around in her seat to stare Sherlock down, “except the ability to somewhat taste rotten food. And they are also able to fly and go through walls.” 

“Congratulations, you are able to observe,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Alright, very good, you two,” Professor Lupin cut in. “Let’s move on.” 

The rest of the pop quiz went in the same manner, and afterwards the professor brought out a ghoul from his office to show everyone. The muggle-borns and a few of the half-and-pure blood students who had never seen a ghoul ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed over it, but Sherlock was unimpressed. His family had a ghoul of their own, which Sherlock had named Redbeard back when he had wished to become a pirate. He’d even insisted to Mycroft that Redbeard would be his first mate. Foolish, Sherlock knew now. Simple childhood fantasies and misconceptions. 

Once the class was over, Sherlock made to get out of the room as quickly as possible, but of course Adler managed to catch up with him before he was even two steps out the door. She always liked to gloat over her self-appointed victory after their debates, even though she didn’t even hold a match to Sherlock’s intellect. He always made a point to ignore her as he walked to his next class, eyes trained straight ahead, refusing to even glance at her light blue eyes. 

“Tell me, where do you get your knowledge of ghosts and ghouls? An encyclopedia?” Sherlock didn’t respond. “You speak as though you’re reciting the information directly from a textbook. You know that it isn’t actually _knowledge_ if you’re only reciting something you’ve memorized?” 

“I would have been more impressed with your ‘knowledge’ if it had been something worth being impressed over.” 

“You’re just jealous that Ravenclaw ended up getting the ten points for the quiz.” 

“Yes, because I’m astounded that a Gryffindor Alumni favors any house but Slytherin,” Sherlock replied sarcastically. 

“I heard you’ve invited John Watson to your house for the holidays.” 

Sherlock froze, causing two Slytherin fourth years walking behind him to collide with his back. They shoved past him, muttering angrily under their breath, but Sherlock couldn’t care less. He simply stared at Adler, who was smirking at him, arms crossed in self-satisfaction. 

“How did _you_ know that?” 

“It’s big gossip in the Hogwarts rumor mill. Sherlock Holmes actually has a _friend_. A Hufflepuff, no less. And now you’ve invited him _home_ with you.” 

“Why do people care?” 

“Because they’re convinced you’ve brainwashed him or something. After all, he is a poor, innocent little first year.” 

“Is that what you think?” Sherlock asked. 

“No. I think it makes perfect sense. Believe it or not, I actually like you. You challenge me academically, which is nice, because nobody else in our year does. So it doesn’t actually astound me that someone else might want to be your friend, too.” 

Sherlock was stunned. “You want to be my friend?” 

“For a genius, you are a bit daft, aren’t you?” 

Sherlock scowled. “I don’t need you to be my friend.” 

“Because you have John. Yes, I know.” Sherlock turned and walked away… in the opposite direction of his next class, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get away from Irene Adler as she called after him, “But just you wait. I’ll make you like me, yet.”


End file.
